


Red Violins

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Remembrance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt has a hard time dealing with Monty's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Violins

**Author's Note:**

> I really loved Steve Montador when he played for the Hawks a few years ago, and was having a hard time dealing with his death. Then, I read Matt's [tweets](https://twitter.com/Matt9Duchene) and a number of articles about how sad Darryl Sutter was about his passing, and I needed a way to deal with it. This fic is my way of doing that.
> 
> This fic mentions suicide, so please don't read if that's a trigger for you. Also, I know that Nate doesn't actually live with Patrick, but, I like that head canon, so-

Matt’s in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, just aware enough to know that his mouth is gummy and he smells of sleep sweat, but not able to care about anything other than _warm_ and _hot_ and _tight_. 

He spreads his knees, tangling his fingers in Patrick’s hair, a warning that he’s awake and enough of an active participant to make things difficult for him, as he arches his hips into Patrick’s mouth.

Patrick pulls off, and Matt shivers as his dick, wet with spit and pre-come, slaps against his stomach in the cool morning air.

"Morning." Patrick’s voice is low, accented and rough with sleep, as he wraps his fist around Matt and pumps once, twice, slow enough to keep Matt dangling on the edge.

"Mmm." Matt spreads his knees further, slitting his eyes open to see Patrick, hair mussed and wild around his ears, his eyes dark and hooded as he looks up at Matt. Matt twists his fingers further into Patrick’s hair and offers him a lazy smile. "This is nice."

"Only the best, pour toi, mon cher." Patrick tightens his fist, dropping his head to kiss along Matt's abs. His beard scratches against Matt's skin, rough and real and just on the wrong side of two much.

Matt's already there, though, his thighs shaking, his balls drawing up, and his stomach muscles spasming in long, deep rolls as he groans out, "Yeah, yeah, fuck, I'm gonna-"

Patrick's fist tightens, concentrating his movements on the head of Matt's dick as Matt comes, sleepy and long and powerful. He groans again, throwing his arm over his eyes as he sinks back into the bed, letting Patrick bring him down with long, slow pumps along his shaft. 

He feels himself soften until he's cradled in Patrick's palm, spent and sensitive and in desperate need of a shower. Patrick cleans him as well as he can with a tissue, before slipping Matt's foreskin into place and pulling himself up the bed.

"Hey," he says, breath hot and sour against Matt's neck. 

Matt smiles, pulling his arm from over his eyes and dropping it around Patrick, tracing his fingers up and down Patrick's spine. "Good morning."

"I thought so." Patrick smirks, arching into Matt's hand before pressing forward to rub his erection against Matt's hip. He's hard and leaking already, dripping a trail of clear, sticky precome over Matt's skin that stretches between them even as Patrick leans back into Matt's fingers. 

Matt shifts so that he can reach further, slipping a finger between Patrick's ass cheeks and rubbing against his hole. Patrick sighs, deep and heavy, against Matt's mouth, his muscles fluttering as he presses back, just enough for the tip of Matt's index finger to slip inside.

"Fuck." Patrick breathes against Matt's mouth, raising himself on his elbow for better leverage. Matt feels almost too lazy to move his finger in Patrick, and he will never understand how Patrick has so much energy in the morning. "Matt, I-"

Matt grins into Patrick's mouth. He loves him like this, loud and open and loose. At any other time of the day, it'll take Matt hours to get him here, but in the mornings he's easy, malleable, willing to give himself over to Matt without even being asked.

Matt twists his finger, spreading Patrick without any real intent except to draw a low, long moan from Patrick. He grins, tightening his thigh and pressing into Patrick, giving him something to thrust against as his rhythm slips from even to something uncoordinated and ungraceful. Matt loves him like this, too, when he's far enough gone that even his well-honed reflexes can't keep him together. 

Patrick gets louder, deeper, grunting something primal and desperate and, as Matt adds a second finger, Patrick's body tightens and he comes into the hollow of Matt's hip.

Matt presses another kiss against Patrick's slack mouth. He'd stay here forever and a day, but his skin feels tacky, and he gathers the strength to push off the bed. "Shit, it's early," he frowns, as he catches sight of the clock on Patrick's bedside table.

"Your phone was beeping. Woke me up. Thought we could put the time to good use." 

"Knew you had something in here." Matt taps at Patrick's head and Patrick grins.

"Smartest to ever play the game," he quotes his favorite THN article and Matt rolls his eyes, shoving at his shoulder.

Patrick rolls over, catching Matt's hand and pulling him into the bathroom. The tiles are cold, but Matt forgets to mind as Patrick pushes Matt against the counter, kissing him slow and sloppy as they wait for the water to warm. 

He's half-hard again by the time Patrick pulls him into the shower, and if he wasn't still tired and a little sore from last night's game, he'd be up for another round. As it is, he stands under the spray for a few extra moments after Patrick steps out, letting the water beat against his muscles and ease the ache. 

When he finally gets out, Patrick's at the sink, trimming the ridiculous beard he's been growing for months. Matt presses a kiss to his shoulder before stepping around him, into the bedroom. 

On his bedside table, his phone beeps and he frowns, finally remembering what Patrick had said about it waking him. He tightens his towel around his waist as he leans over to grab it. His frown deepens as he sees the 17 missed texts and five missed phone calls.

Most are from his trainer, variations on _call me_ , and Matt hits redial as something thick and unsettling roots in his chest.

"Matty," Andy answers, low and careful and not at all the cheerful, upbeat guy he usually is with Matt.

"What's up?" Matt asks, forcing it, light and airy, past that knot in his chest.

"You haven't-?" Andy clears his throat and Matt's stomach sinks. "You haven't been on-line yet this morning?"

Matt swallows through something tightening in his throat. "No, I- it's still early here."

"Right, yeah, of course." Andy sounds distracted, and the phone skips as he sighs into it. "Monty, he, ahh, died. This morning."

Matt's knees feel weak and he sinks onto the bed. "What?"

"They, um, found him. A few hours ago. It was- they think it was suicide, but, we'll know more. In a few days."

"Oh." Matt's brain skips over _dead_ and _suicide_ again and again, until he feels numb and empty.

"You know how hard the last year has been. With the concussion and-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Matt hears himself say, without realizing he's said it. His body feels cold, as he crashes into memories he never thought would be his last. A message, weeks ago now, and Matt had smiled - _smiled_ \- at hearing Monty's voice. But there had been a game, a celebration after a win, and Matt had thought there'd be time.

Behind him, the bed dips, and he feels Patrick press against his back. Matt's bare skin feels clammy where it sticks to the cotton of Patrick's undershirt. "Matty?" Patrick asks, his voice low and worried in Matt's free ear.

Over the phone, Andy sighs. "I'm sorry to do this. I need to call Steve's parents, help with the arrangements. You'll tell Patrick for me, ehh?"

"Yeah, sure, of course." Matt bites his lip. His throat feels dry and cracked. "Give them my best."

"Take care of yourself, Matty."

Matt drops his phone to his lap, starring at it for long moments until Patrick scoots closer, resting a hand on Matt's hip. 

"What-?"

"Steve Montador passed away. This morning." It sounds far away, unreal, unbelievable, even as he says it.

"Je suis désolé," Patrick murmurs, then, "I'm so sorry," as he presses his lips to Matt's shoulder and leaves them there.

Matt closes his eyes, letting Patrick ground him, bring him back to his own body. He reaches down, threading his fingers through Patrick's and clinging to him, as if he's the only lifeline Matt has. In the end, Matt figures, he probably is.

***

Matt has a hard time focusing at practice. He misses most of his shots and sends more than a few passes well wide of Iggy. He apologizes afterwards, and is one of the first off the ice. He spends extra time in the weight room to make up for it. It's nice, the stretch and pull of his muscles, pushing himself hard enough to keep his mind on nothing but his stance and the weights.

He feels weightless, until he finishes his reps and opens his eyes to see Patrick standing over him. Matt comes crashing back into his body and his arms shake as he grunts, struggling to keep the bar up, now that he's aware of it again, until Patrick reaches out to take its weight. "Fuck, Dutchy, this is heavy."

Matt shrugs against the bench, but now that he's not lifting, his shoulders are starting to ache. "Needed to get my mind off things."

Patrick's face shudders, with more pity than sympathy, and Matt hates it as he watches Patrick slip, visibly, back into Coach Roy. "We have a game tomorrow. No matter how you're feeling, you have to be responsible."

And fuck that. Matt doesn't want to be responsible. Being responsible has gotten him nowhere. It's gotten his team 12th place in the Western Conference, eight points out of a playoff birth. It got one of his closest friends a series of concussions that left him with crippling headaches and a depression that no one could pull him out of. 

Matt's sick of being responsible. And he's sick of Patrick looking at him like that, like he isn't Matt's; not now at least, when Matt needs him most.

He reaches up, catching Patrick unawares as he pulls at the waistband of his sweats, freeing Patrick's dick so it's hanging, loose and soft, over Matt's head. Satisfied, Matt wraps his fist around the base, lifting his head to wrap his mouth around the head.

"Osti, _fuck_ , what are you-?" Patrick jerks away, pulling his pants and boxers up, fast enough to sting. He eyes are wild and pale as he looks around to make sure that they're alone. 

Matt sits up, feeling cold and empty. He grabs for a water bottle, rearranging himself in his shorts without bothering to be surreptitious about it. "Landy's in the shower. Everyone else left hours ago," he bites out, feeling red and angry, even as some distant part of him knows that Patrick's not to blame for how desperate he feels.

"I- Matt, I know you're having a hard time today, but, we can't."

"A _hard time_?" Matt repeats. 

"That's not-" Patrick runs a hand through his hair. "That's not what I meant." His voice breaks, sliding from English to French as his accent thickens.

Matt's phone buzzes on the bench next to him and he grabs it, pushing past Patrick, sidestepping Patrick's reach for him. "I've gotta get this."

"Matt-"

Matt ignores him, answering his phone without looking at it. "Hello?"

"Matt? You okay?"

"Hayley." Matt slips into the nearest equipment room, leaning against the counter and taking a long sip of water. "Yeah, just getting done with a workout."

"Ahh." Her voice slips. "I just- wanted to check in."

Matt closes his eyes, reeling in his anger as he drops his voice. "Yeah, I, uh, Andy called me. This morning. How are you doing?"

She breathes unevenly. "I miss him. Already."

"Me too." Matt's throat feels thick and dry, like it's filled with sawdust.

"The funeral's on Saturday. I know you can't, but, I thought you'd wanna know."

"Yeah, I do, thanks. I'll send flowers, to his parents and-" Matt kicks his toe against the cabinet, tapping it gently. It does nothing to make him feel any better. "Give them a hug for me, yeah?"

"Of course." She pauses. "I- he mentioned you, a few days ago. Said he had been meaning to call, but, things get in the way, you know?"

Matt's chest aches and aches and he says, his voice cracking, "Yeah, I, ahh, I know."

"Anyway, I thought you'd like to know that he had been thinking about you."

"Thanks." 

"Take care of yourself, Matty."

"You too."

She hangs up and Matt's chest feels thick and heavy with self-recrimination and this terrible, useless need to turn back time, to make things right, to fix a mistake he'll never be able to fix. He kicks at the cabinet, hard enough to knock it off its hinges and send shooting pains up his calf. 

He swears as he hops to the showers.

He still doesn't feel better.

***

Matt doesn't go out with the express purpose of drinking Landy under the table, but when EJ asks him out, he takes him up on it. 

"Wow, Dutchy, nice to see you," Tyson greets him, raising a shot glass. 

Matt reaches for a free glass, knocking it against Tyson's and tipping it back, before he slips into the booth next to EJ. "I come out," he argues, as he slams his glass back to the table.

EJ snorts. "On the road, yeah. When we're at home, you're one of the," he raises his hands to make finger quotes, "'old married guys.'"

"Not yet," Matt grumbles. He feels a pinch behind EJ's good-natured ribbing. And he's right. Matt hasn't been around, not off the ice, not like he used to be. He reaches for another shot.

EJ raises an eyebrow. "Trouble in paradise?"

"No," Matt answers, too fast, then, slower, "no, no, just- I need a night out, okay?"

"Sure." Landy grins, pushing his rum and coke across the table and flagging down their waitress for another round.

Matt doesn't remember a whole lot after that, between the tequila shots and the pitchers that their waitress eventually just leaves for them. He knows he laughs a lot, and he's pretty sure that, at some point, there is impromptu line dancing.

He does remember Tyson stealing his keys about an hour in, though. And he still knows enough to hail a cab round about midnight, when the room's starting to get fuzzy at the edges and the waitress starts finding ways to caress his arm as she hands over a last round of shots.

The world's spinning pretty quickly by the time the cab drops him off at the house, and he's already on the stoop by the time he remembers that Tyson has his keys. He pulls his phone out, pausing over Patrick's name in his speed dial, before sending Nate a quick _let me in_ text.

He hops on his feet, trying to stay warm in the cold February night, until Nate opens the door. "What-?"

"Tyson stole my keys," Matt says, and he's pretty sure he doesn't slur, but he does trip over the front step. 

Nate laughs, catching Matt's elbow and helping him in. "Upstairs?"

Matt stops at the bottom, counting how many steps he could trip over on the way up, before shaking his head. "The couch is good."

Nate laughs again, enjoying this more than he should as he leads Matt into the living room and helps him strip down to his boxers and undershirt. He pulls the blanket off the back of the couch, laying it over Matt.

Matt's just about to thank him when Nate pulls out his iPhone and snaps a picture. "Asshole," he settles on, instead.

Nate checks the picture, grinning all the way back to the basement.

***

Matt's head is pounding the next morning, all bright lights and stark sounds behind his eyelids as he blinks into the sun streaming through the blinds. His back is tight from the couch and his toes hurt, probably from where he kicked the cabinet the day before.

There's a loud bang from behind him and he groans as he sits up, turning to see Nate by the door, looking guilty. "Razor," he whines. 

Nate just looks guiltier. "Sorry, sorry, but, we have to get to practice."

Matt groans again. He feels sticky and achy, and it's been a long time since he's had holes in his memories of the night before. 

"Coach left an hour ago," Nate continues, without the grace to keep his voice down. "But he left you that."

Matt turns his head to see a water bottle and four aspirin on the coffee table. It feels passive aggressive, but Matt's too hungover to do anything but down the pills and follow Nate into his car.

Matt manages to avoid Patrick for the rest of the day. He keeps his head down at morning skate, following Iggy's lead during drills, and slips into the showers before Patrick can catch him.

After practice, he cajoles Landy into taking him to pick up his car at the bar, then conks out in Landy's guest room for his pre-game nap. Landy doesn't push him, but when they head to the Pepsi Center for the game a few hours later, he sends Matt side-long glances, until Matt bites out an "Eyes on the road" directive that sounds much too like his father's for comfort.

They lose to the Coyotes, 2-1, and Matt lingers on the bike. He's not sure if he's punishing himself for the game or for his drinking the night before or- He tries not to think about the other things he's punishing himself for.

When he gets home, Nate's already in the basement, and the house is quiet, peaceful, suffocating. Matt pauses at the bottom of the stairs, before detouring past the den. Patrick's spread out on the couch, rewatching the game with a beer balanced on his thigh. 

Matt watches, missing him, aching with it, all the way to his injured toe. But, _no_ , his mind reminds him, and he shutters his eyes, crosses his arms protectively across his chest, and steps into the room.

Patrick turns his head quickly. "Hey," he offers, softly, warily. Matt hates it.

"Hey." Matt leans in the doorway. "Sorry 'bout last night."

Patrick shrugs. "It's good to blow off some steam."

"Yeah." Matt uncrosses his arms, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I'm gonna head to bed."

"I'll be up in a bit."

Matt hears the game start again as he heads up the stairs. He's exhausted, but he lies awake, holding his breath until Patrick finally joins him. Patrick's good at being quiet, too many years learning to be quick on his feet, but the bed dips when he slides in. Matt wants to roll over, fit himself against Patrick's side and lose himself there.

He rolls onto his side, away from Patrick, leaving half a foot between them on the mattress.

***

The bed is cold when Matt wakes the next morning. His head still hurts, even though he hasn’t had a two-day hangover since his rookie year, and he only gets up for a glass of water and a handful of aspirin before he crawls back into bed with his Kindle and the latest Game of Thrones book.

The pain’s just starting to ease when he hears Patrick take the stairs two at a time, before he opens the door without knocking. “Ahh, hi,” he says, as if he’s surprised to see Matt there. He’s dressed in under armour and an Avs windbreaker, sweating through it as he sits on the edge of the bed, leaning towards Matt. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

Matt puts his Kindle to sleep, wrinkling his nose, a little hurt and more than – he knows, unreasonably - irritated. “Where else would I be?”

Patrick reaches out. His hand is overheated and damp as he wraps it around Matt’s shoulder. Matt’s skin feels clammy and cold, and he shivers, all the way up his spine. He flinches away.

Patrick frowns, pulling back. “Wherever you’ve been the last few days.”

“I’ve been right here.” Matt pulls his knees closer to his chest, wrapping the quilts closer to his chin. His head feels heavy and he really just wants to take a nap before practice.

Patrick puffs out his chest, like he wants to argue. Matt wishes he would, wishes he’d yell and scream, maybe throw something or punch his fist through their mirror or any of the things Patrick’s known for. Matt deserves it, wants it, wants the opportunity to yell back, maybe throw a punch or two of his own, before he does it on the ice and – with his luck - breaks his hand in the process.

Patrick, though, just gets up, careful not to touch Matt as he steps away. His shoulders are soft and sloped, his eyes clouded and unreadable as he watches Matt with deep, sad lines around his eyes. “I don’t know where you are, but it’s not here.”

Patrick’s voice is low, slow, controlled. It’s so much worse than if he was angry.

Matt picks up his Kindle, turning it back on as he blinks, quickly, against his eyes. He doesn’t watch as Patrick sheds his jogging clothes and heads to the bathroom.

***

The Kings are in town on Wednesday. They're in a groove, with the best corsi rating in the league, and while the game only ends 3-1 Kings, it feels like the Avs spent all of five minutes in the offensive zone all game. 

Still, Matt waits outside the visitor's dressing room after the game. He's dressed in his suit, a little rumbled, his knee bent against the wall as he beats Jess at trivia crack, when Carts and Kopi come out.

"Hey, Dutchy." Carts raises his fist for Matt to bump.

"Hey, man." Matt pushes off the wall, catching Carts' fist to pull him into a hug, dropping his voice for only Carts to hear. "Sorry about Ritchie." 

Carts shrugs, dropping his eyes. "He'll be back. He just- needs a little time."

"Yeah." Matt wants to say something. He wants to warn Carts to be careful, to look out for Ritchie, because losing hockey- that does something to them, those of them born to play the game, and Matt knows the warning signs now. But Carts' eyes are soft and certain, and Matt settles on, "Tell him, if he ever needs to talk, I- we're all here for him."

"Thanks." Carts shuffles his feet and Matt doesn't miss the way Kopi rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'll let him know. He'll appreciate it."

Matt nods, glancing behind them at the locker room door as it bangs open and Darryl joins them. "Hey, um, Coach Sutter," Matt says, shuffling his feet and trying to avoid everyone's eyes.

Darryl claps Carts and Kopi on the shoulders, saying, "midnight curfew," in the gruff, gentle way he has. They grin, saying their goodbyes to Matt before disappearing down the hallway. Darryl turns to Matt. "Know a place around here for a drink?"

"Yeah." Matt's heard of Darryl's sixth sense, but he's never been so grateful for it before.

They settle into a local place a short drive from the Pepsi Center, where Matt knows the bartender but is pretty sure they won't be recognized. They order a couple of beers and Matt stares at his for a while, running his fingers along the rim of his glass until Darryl starts speaking, low and gruff and insistent.

"I knew Steve really well. In Calgary, and then the last few years in LA."

"I know." Matt swallows, looking up to see Darryl watching him.

"He talked about you a lot. You were a good friend."

"Not so much." Matt's voice breaks and he swallows through it. "In the end."

"Dutchy-"

Matt shakes his head. He's been holding this in for days, distracting himself with hockey and alcohol and books, but he feels like he's drowning in it, and it spills over before he can stop himself. "He called, a couple of months ago. I was- busy, with the team and with-" _Patrick_ , he wants to say, but he doesn't know if Patrick's told Darryl about them and- 

Darryl reaches over, resting his hand over Matt's and Matt sighs, deep in his chest, and continues. "Anyway, he called again two weeks ago. I was going to call back-" He pauses, then amends, "I told myself I was going to call back. I knew he wasn't having the best time, but, it was hard, you know? If I had known it was the end-" he shakes his head. "But, it shouldn't have mattered. I should have been there. He needed me, and I wasn't."

"Depression doesn't work like that, you know that. This isn't anyone's fault."

Matt shrugs. "You talked to him, recently. How was he?"

"He wasn't- he had his demons. He was trying to work through them."

Matt nods. Darryl squeezes his hand. 

"Don't blame yourself, Matt. That doesn't do anyone any good."

"I know, I know, but-" Matt shakes his head, taking a long draw of his beer with his free hand. "I don't know what else to do."

Darryl shrugs. "We can give. Time and money, to support hospitals and research."

"Yeah. We do that, the Avs, I mean. And, me too. Whenever I can."

"Do it more."

It feels like an order, an instruction, and Matt nods. "Yeah, okay."

"And, we can take care of each other. The ones who are still here. We can love the game, and let it love us."

Matt gets that. He loves the game, more than he's ever loved anything, until he met Patrick. But even that- Patrick and hockey aren't so different, after all, and they're so entwined in his head that Matt doesn't know what he'd do, without them. What they'd be, him and Patrick, if hockey were to go away.

Matt misses him, fiercely, desperately. He thinks of Patrick, probably sitting at home, watching game tape and worrying about Matt, about how Matt hasn't touched him in days. Matt feels cold, even under Darryl's hand, and he shakes his head.

"I need to get home. Thank you, for talking with me."

Darryl nods, taking his hand away and smiling into his beer. "Take care of him, ehh?"

Matt pauses, laughing a little under his breath. Darryl knows, which can only mean that Patrick told him. Of course he did. Because he promised Matt, when they started this whole thing months ago, that this was it for him. Not hockey, not the Avs. Matt, and what they have together.

Matt doesn't know how he forgot that. 

***

The light's on in the den when Matt gets home, but otherwise the house is quiet and dark. It settles in his veins this time, peaceful, familiar, _home_. He takes a detour upstairs, slipping out of his suit and into a pair of shorts and one of Patrick's old hoodies, his number 33 large on the chest, just above Matt's heart.

He jogs down the steps, loud enough to warn Patrick that he's home, stopping to grab two beers from the kitchen before heading into the den. There are already a couple of empty bottles in front of Patrick, but Matt pushes them out of the way to sit on the coffee table between Patrick's knees, holding out one of the beers.

Patick takes it, and Matt clinks the necks together. It's not a touch, not really, but something Matt hadn't even noticed building in Patrick's shoulders eases.

"Coach Sutter sends his best."

"Oh?" Patrick raises an eyebrow, tipping his bottle back.

"He, ahh, knew Monty pretty well. Monty was living in California, for a while, I don't know if you- Anyway, there were some things I needed to ask."

"Did you find your answers?"

Matt nods. "Yeah."

"Darryl, he- I mean, he told you that it wasn't your fault, yeah?" Patrick offers, finishing his bottle and setting it next to the other empties.

Matt chuckles. "You know me too well."

"Always." Patrick smiles, ruefully, and tilts his head. "Also, Darryl texted. Told me you were on your way home."

Matt flushes, setting his still-full beer down on the coffee table and running his fingers over the mesh of his shorts. "I'm sorry. For the last few days."

Patrick reaches out, pauses for only a moment before wrapping his hand around Matt's knee. It's more than a moment too long, and Matt presses into the touch, welcoming him. Patrick sighs, squeezing. "You were grieving."

"Yeah." Matt can't take his eyes from Patrick's hand, large and steady and dark against Matt's pale skin. He's spent so much time pushing Patrick away, but now he wants his strength, wants to slide into Patrick and borrow it, just for a little while. "Monty- he was a good friend of mine. And he was in trouble, but I was too happy to see that. I should have- I should have seen that he needed a friend."

Patrick scoots forward on the couch, spreading his legs further to accommodate Matt as he puts his free hand on Matt's hip, slipping under the sweatshirt and caressing his bare skin. "You can't blame yourself."

"Yeah, I, ahh, know that, now." Matt drops his chin, pressing further into every point of contact between them. "But, I was. And I was blaming you, too."

Patrick stays quiet, but he doesn't stop caressing Matt's skin with slow, gentle touches.

"And I, um, started worrying about what we would be, without the game between us."

"Matt-"

Matt reaches down to squeeze his hand, quieting him. "I lost track of us for a little while, but, I found us again. With some help."

"Seems I have a lot of things to thank Darryl for."

"Yeah." Matt drops his chin. "I'm sorry."

Patrick presses forward, catching Matt's mouth in a slow, gentle kiss. "Je t'adore," he murmurs, when he pulls back.

Matt slips off the coffee table, stretching out on the couch and pulling Patrick with him. "Je t'adore aussi," he repeats, butchering it, like he always does, and Patrick laughs, pulling Matt into another kiss.

Matt feels warm and relieved, settled for the first time in days. He feels sad, too, something that's been lost under all the anger and fear he's been drowning in. He lays there, listening to Patrick's breathing, for long, long moments, before, finally, he starts, slowly. "Monty was one of the smartest, most genuine guys I've ever known. I'm not as good a person, without him around."

Patrick slips both his hands under Matt's hoodie, resting against his lower back. "I'm sorry I never met him."

"Me too." Matt smiles. It's small, twisted a little at the ends but it's a start. "He would have liked you. Always gave me a run for my money; you would have been awful together."

"Would have loved him, then."

Matt pinches his shoulder, but then he settles against Patrick's chest. "Yeah, you would have."

Patrick presses their forehead together. "Tell me about him, Matty."

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com).


End file.
